


tell me thunderstorms

by yellogazello



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Background Logicality - Freeform, Bartender!Virgil, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, Tenderness, Warm, for like 3 scenes, kind of, like this is mostly all prinxiety, no caps, police officer!roman, set in england bc i live there and i wanted it to be, they live in a cottage by the sea, very very background demus, warnings inside!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 18:56:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellogazello/pseuds/yellogazello
Summary: tell me thunderstorms; tell me how they live.he was a snarky bartender! he was a new in town police officer having some doubts about his life choices! can i make it aaaany more oooobviousprose fic with lots of tenderness. jesus christ it’s so tender. they have a cottage by the sea and they watch the storms come in that’s the basic gist of the plot i guess just read it(i know one of the main characters is a cop in this but i would like to state i don’t condone the current police system! acab)





	1. Chapter 1

** _tell me thunderstorms_ **

_ tell me how they live. _

_ warnings: _ alcohol, some angst, character has a small breakdown over loneliness. **(spoiler warning but if you have triggers read it) **in one scene a character is shot and injured, though it’s described ambiguously and no blood/pain is mentioned. skip chapter 5)

xxx

lined eyes, lined smiles. they have years and years on the backs of their hands, and their children are growing up. their son phillip (as in sleeping beauty’s prince) is big now, all scraped knees and bike oil, but little elle (as in the black cauldron’s elionwy) is still little enough to clamour for romance at storytime.

‘daddy,’ she grins, chin tucked primly under white linen, ‘tell me how you and dada fell in _ love! _’’ 

roman’s tawny hands (storybooks of their own. dark pages full of criss-cross writing, of twisting motion and slender bones, with scars from police work and potato-peelers alike, sometimes pressed with the faint ghost of a certain someone’s aubergine lipstick, sometimes trembling, sometimes tear-speckled, always beautiful) still on the cat’s back. she chirrups quietly, lifting her little black chin, and they jump back to action again, roman’s eyes (the colour of the ocean - brackish, saline, like brittle stalks of seaweed) fixing on his eager daughter. 

‘well,’ he begins, ‘we-he-hell.’ 


	2. Chapter 2

once upon a time there was a man (ernest fairweather), who moved to a small town in the south (or the north?) of the country (exactly which country doesn’t matter, they’re all the same at heart) and decided to establish a little pub there, on the high street. he lived there with his family for years and years, and their small inn grew into a warm and bustling tavern. it’s still there today, although renovated recently. there’s a car park. 

tell me about it. tell me about what’s inside. tell me about the slender ceiling beams and the low-hanging lamplights and the mahogany. there are stories scuffed into the wooden floor, sketched ankle-height into the whiteish walls, in the shadows cast by the friendly hearth. tell me about the young boy wiping down the bar with a damp cloth (he calls himself a man - he isn’t one yet). what’s his story? tell me oil-slick hair and skin like birchpaper, tell me storm-warning eyes with shadows underneath. the nervous touches of makeup on his eyelids. the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the twitch of his nimble fingers. he is piano boy, both in looks (ebony on ivory) and in trade - they call him a musical genius. (he rejects this title. he’s just having a bit of fun is all.)

someone sits at the bar in front of him, holding his glass with two hands. piano boy turns to polish the sparkling array of jewel-toned poisons they keep in the big cabinet (as instructed by manager logan fairweather, direct descendant of the original ernest and current owner of the establishment, so as not to let them dust) and carefully watches him out of the corner of his eye. he likes to think he is being subtle (he isn’t). 

he’s a city boy - polluted green eyes boy, smog-in-the-skin boy, smoke-red hair boy, tap-tap-tapping on the rim of the glass with his little finger. sad, downcast. staring, staring, into the yellowy liquid. staring. staring. (not a man yet, either). 

‘evening,’ says piano boy, because he can’t take any more of that staring. 

‘good evening,’ replies city boy courteously, looking up. his voice is clear and well-spoken. 

‘new in town?’ says piano boy, still polishing a bottle of something sinister green.

‘yes,’ answers city boy. ‘are you fairweather?’

‘what?’

‘this pub. it’s called the fairweather arms. are you fairweather?’ 

‘oh,’ says piano boy, ‘oh, no, i’m just… erm, working at the bar a bit. logan fairweather and his husband patton own the place, logan’s a descendant of, um, the original. i suppose.’

‘you suppose?’ says city boy, twinkling. sad eyes, sad, sad eyes. ‘what does that mean?’

piano boy rolls his eyes. ‘wow, you’re charming.’

‘of course i am. you’re… wearing black eyeshadow.’

‘clever observation, einstein! are you a scientist?’

city boy smirks, shaking his head. ‘police officer in training. you?’

‘bartender. obviously. can i get you anything else?’

piano boy shrugs and turns back to the bottle. ‘where are you from, then?’

city boy leans back in his seat.

he’s from a city nearby, somewhere, training to be something, someone. he’s 18. he’s here to take a break from the bad air or something. his mother grew up here. he doesn’t drink and he doesn’t know why he ordered this. he isn’t lost, he says, just wandering. 

‘i’m virgil sanders,’ says piano boy, extending a hand.

city boy takes it. ‘roman prince.’ 

and maybe, maybe he’s not so melancholy after all - maybe there’s colour in his cheeks, warmth in his hair, in his skin. maybe his eyes aren’t so sad, aren’t polluted, no, they’re big and deep and green, green, green, the colour of the sea. virgil looks into those eyes, and he isn’t lost, he swears, just wondering. 

they sit and talk until the lights are low and they’re the only ones left. 


	3. Chapter 3

a year passes.

tell me of a dark sky stained by the aftertaste of a sunset, tell me of scudding grey clouds and humidity. he’s leaning over the edge of the balcony and it’s the kind of rain that doesn’t start, it doesn’t stop. fat droplets roll across his knuckles (those hands again - younger, thinner, filled with a quickness long forgotten, still beautiful, always beautiful) and he looks out over the curve of the bay. tell me of a low and gathered sea.

this young man is copper coins and sunshine. he’s golden afternoons and oak. his skin is glowing caramel and his hair is thick reddish brown (too long, he needs a haircut, but someone likes to brush it out of his eyes with a wry smile and say ‘careful, darling, you’ll disappear behind that mane.’ it’s always in the way, but without those fleeting touches, he swears he’ll starve. that, and haircuts cost money, which he doesn’t have a lot of). he’s short and puppylike, always sunshine, always cheerful. he isn’t… brooding dark clouds, and all those stormy etceteras. how did he get here? in this place, at this time? a hungry little cottage by the coast, without really much of anything at all? 

he wants to be a police officer, because he wants to save people. he wants to right wrongs and fight crime, and oh, he knows it’s not that simple, not in the slightest, not one bit. (don’t, don’t tell him he’s a dreamer, don’t tell him of the maddening things he’ll be facing every day - like paperwork and the people he hasn’t been able to save - just let him pretend. please). anyway, the end goal right now is to get through the academy, not starve, and… well, virgil.

virgil. that’s why he’s here, brooding on this balcony, rainlit. virgil. virgil, whose stormwater eyes and biting wit make roman want to sing oceanic similes (and the like) until his voice gives out, virgil, who still bartends at the fairweather arms and is gruff and sarcastic but ultimately loved by all, virgil, who plays the piano and sings along to the radio and melts the stars.  _ virgil _ . his namesake was a revered poet, and so is he - only he doesn’t really write the traditional way, so to speak. virgil lives his poems. you can’t approach him without breathing them in.

and then, as roman has discovered, they get caught in your lungs and wedge themselves into every nook, cranny and crevice your body has to spare. 

they sort of live together now, because it’s easier (they reason) or it’s cheaper (or something). also, they’re sort of dating (yeah, it’s kind of official) and kind of sharing a bed (there’s only one). roman calls virgil a host of pet names - stormcloud, emo nightmare, anxious anne, panic! at the everywhere, darling when he’s feeling particularly brave. virgil calls roman only two - princey, or love. they take turns cooking dinner (roman’s the better cook, though) and washing up (but virgil’s got a knack for chores) and they sit by the fire, talking about anything and everything, from rent to fairytales to dreams of fixed roofs and central heating. they wait for each other. come home to each other. they live each other. 

roman really really  _ really _ likes virgil. but they’re running out of time.

he has to go back to the city soon. he wants to, because his big dream will finally finally be within reach, but… well, he’ll be leaving behind the ocean and the salt and the nothing-much-at-all. he’ll be leaving behind a dimly-lit little cottage, and all its ivory keys and gentle hearths and lovely stormwater eyes. he can’t bear it. he’ll wilt amongst concrete and silver glass before the first week is up. 

how soon? when is soon? tomorrow. he knows, he knows, he pretends he doesn’t, he pretends this is a night like any other as his eyes follow the curling bay. there is the night tide - push, pull, pushover pullover over and over and over again. there’s a whisper, a murmur, at the white edge of the surf, a hush, a lull, a soothing mantra. god, he loves the sea.

roman breathes in. the air is thick tonight, honeysuckle-cloyed, maybe a little grainy. he breathes it in, lets it wash through his lungs, pushover, pullover. he hasn’t told virgil he’s leaving yet. he’s tried, but the words are too thorny.

and as if by magic, his sleeping lover is beside him - awake, just, his pinned black hair spilling into weathered grey eyes, perfect stones set in marble. his fingers (different, these ones, nimbler, quicker, made to move) wrap around roman’s arm and (!!!) brushes his lips over his dark shoulder. virgil is the taller of the two, willowy and pale. he leans out over the balcony railing, gazing out to sea. 

(roman tastes of brine, he thinks, he’s been out here for a while. not good. virgil has a talent for spotting the not-good, and this is it.) 

‘alright?’ says piano boy, not really knowing what else to say.

‘storm,’ city boy points out helpfully. ‘was just sort of… watching it come in.’

‘yes,’ piano boy agrees. ‘s’warm tonight.’

‘needed air,’ city boy continues. ‘you?’

‘looking for you. are you coming back in?

there’s silence, filled by seawhisper and wind. 

‘i love storms,’ virgil murmurs, to fill in the sucking void. ‘we get, uh, really good ones here, especially in the late summer.’

‘yes,’ nods roman absently, his hair whipping around his eyes. 

‘do you like them?’

‘what?’

‘storms,’ repeats virgil, then, ‘alright. i get it. i see what it’s like to do all the talking around here. what’s wrong, then, princey?’

‘......’

‘it’s cool. you can take your time.’

the taller man folds forward onto the railing, resting his head. there’s a flicker and a distant rumble. he gives a small, encouraging smile. 

‘... i’ve never really been a huge fan of storms,’ roman finally answers, ‘not until recently, anyway. i’d love to watch them with you, though. really. there’s nothing i’d love more.’

virgil opens his mouth, but roman isn’t quite done.

‘i’d love to watch them on the cliff’s edge, or on the beach, right in the thick of it. i’d love to watch them from the living room window, warm and distant. i’d love to watch them from here, but most of all, i’d love to watch them in your arms.’

there’s another rumble. roman tilts his head downwards. 

‘i’ve… i’ve got to go. i’m sorry.’

‘what?’

‘i have to go back to the city. for… for a while. months, maybe, until i finish the academy and i’m a real cop, and then a little while after. but i’ll come back, alright? i promise.’

virgil’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out. his eyes fill with tears.

‘when?’ he manages to whisper. 

‘tomorrow,’ roman winces. the word goes straight through virgil’s chest and comes out the other side. 

‘fucker,’ he chokes. the tears keep coming, and it’s no use to pretend they’re from the salt. ‘could’ve warned me.’ 

‘i couldn’t,’ says roman, voice cracking, ‘i’m sorry. i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i’m sorry.’

a crack of thunder. pathetic fucking fallacy. 

tell me of locked fingers and wet cheeks. curling, curling, the lip of the sea.


	4. Chapter 4

it’s been months, now - tell me ink and nightstands, nights hot, nights cold, tell me stacks of envelopes waiting in the corner, thesauruses left open, pages marked with lavender. virgil has two boxes on his desk: imports (postcards from art galleries, small acrylic paintings, polaroids of the city, empty cake tins, jokey keepsakes, homemade wax seals) and to-be exports (cuttings of pressed flowers, tiny bottles of perfume, seashells, beach glass, wrapped home-baked goods, bracelets). it’s late. 

virgil flops back on his bed, clutching his favourite polaroid to his chest (a blurry dud of roman laughing, he’d sleep with it under his pillow if he wasn’t so self conscious) and squeezing his tired eyes shut. oh, by day it’s al _ right _ \- by day he has work and friends and all the rest of it to keep him busy. but by night, missing roman becomes a physical  _ ache _ , a constant, grinding pain behind his ribcage, a bulletwound that ranges in calibre (sometimes it’s a 0.22, but it can grow to a 0.45). he misses something new about him everyday. today it’s his paella. roman is a fantastic cook, and no matter how meticulously virgil sticks to the recipe he left behind, it never tastes the same.

(maybe it’s because paella night is usually a tuesday, which is virgil’s night off, so the two of them spend the day walking along the coastline then take a taxi back to the cottage. roman cooks, they eat and watch a movie together, then they watch the stars over the bay and get an early night. they joke about finally being able to go to bed at the same time before they turn out the light. it’s virgil’s favourite day.)

roman’s working hard in the city so he can come home, practically working himself to death, he tells virgil in his letters, and compared to him the bartender feels restless. he has nobody to clean for, work for, talk to, nobody to live with. he always thought he was a lone-wolf sort of person. oh, how wrong he was. 

(he’s become dependent, something he promised never to be, and it’s absolutely-fucking-terrifying. because what if, what if roman decides one day that he’s had enough and realises he can do better? what if he leaves, what if virgil makes him leave, what if they fall out? they already fight, as they’re very different and also very similar, which is a recipe for disaster - what if they fight especially bad and never make up? what if roman meets someone charming and princely in the city who sweeps him off his feet, and virgil is left alone in the big small stuffy open cottage by the sea forever and ever and-) 

he doesn’t realise he’s crying until he notices his duvet is damp.

‘oh,’ he says, wrinkling his nose at the trembling in his voice, ‘oh.’

he runs his hand over his cheeks and his eyes wander to balcony. he hasn’t had anyone over in weeks, not even the fairweathers (is it because he’s jealous of their marriedness? absolutely definitely yes) and the tiny house feels so enormous, with only him inside it. 

(he thinks about marrying roman, about double-barrel

surnames, about roman with pearl earrings and a wedding dress, looking up through a misty veil with eyes like jewels, and his heart splutters to a halt for a moment. these are un-virgil-like thoughts, and it scares and thrills him in equal amounts. uhh, black eyeshadow, spiderwebs, rock music, scowling! there, much better.) 

yes, virgil’s lonely. so fucking lonely. but he doesn’t need to rope anyone else into his pool of sadness, he’s perfectly fine on his own. well… for now. 

the doorbell rings and he gasps out loud, foolishly, childishly hopeful, just for a moment, a second (maybe it’s him. maybe he’s come home to surprise me. nope, van outside, it’s the postman. he’s not coming home yet, virgil, goddamn it!). okay, maybe he  _ does  _ need to get out more. 

he troops downstairs and wrenches the stiff wooden door open. ‘hello?’

‘post!’ nods the postman, tipping his hat. he hands virgil a package (probably those new china plates he ordered, fascinating) and a thick cream envelope.

‘thank you,’ says virgil, pretending his eyes aren’t swollen and red. he shuts the door and races up to his room, tearing the envelope open and shaking out his prize. he holds up the letter to the light -

_ my dearest virgil,  _

_ enclosed with this letter is a genuine snakeskin shed by scooter  _ (the pet snake of roman’s brother remus and his boyfriend declan; they’re a rather odd pair, but they were kind enough to let roman stay in their swanky city apartment, so virgil rates them highly)  _ as you mentioned to me once you’d always wanted to hold one!! fingers crossed it doesn’t disintegrate or crumble in the post. _

virgil gently removes the snakeskin from the ripped remains of the envelope. it’s incredible, though broken in half, but he’s so ravenously desperate for more roman that he sets it aside for now. 

_ first off, as usual, i’d like to remind you (in case you forgot) that i love you. i love you i love you i love you i love you i love you, baby, angel, darling, stormcloud, emo nightmare. i love you i love you i love you.  _

_ it hits me harder every night, when i’m squashed in this tiny single bed and i think of you all alone in our big white bed, in our bedroom, at  _ home -  _ god, i just can’t sleep. i miss you so stupidly and i’m pretty sure it’s completely irritating to everyone else here, because i’m always lost in some sort of dream about us reuniting at the airport at sunset, but i guess they can’t handle my romantic charm. you always do. you’re a hopeless romantic too, no matter how much you try to hide it.  _

_ i miss you so much that i walked into a music shop, saw a panic! at the disco vinyl on display, and had to walk back out again. i miss you so much that everytime i see a spiderweb i look up hopefully. i miss you so much that whenever i walk past an emo on the street, i can’t stop myself from bursting into uncontrollable tears and rolling into a drain to wallow in my missing-you-ness. but i swear i’ll be able to visit soon. it’s just been so hard to find the time.  _

virgil realises he’s smiling, and that his tears have stopped coming. he imagines roman reaching out of the paper and wiping his wet eyes, kissing his damp cheeks, stroking his back -  _ there now, virgil, you’re all good, aren’t you? you’re so brave, stormcloud, so strong.  _ ugh, what a chivalrous fucking nerd. he misses him with all his heart. 

_ in your last letter you mentioned something about being worried about me leaving you for someone else.  _ whomp, there it is.  _ actually, i think your wording was ‘take a night off, go have fun! find some handsome city prince and forget all about me.’  _

_ first off, there is only ONE handsome city prince worth knowing, and he’s me. secondly off, absolutely no fucking WAY. seriously, virge, why would i spend months moping and staring out the window, dreaming of kissing your hand and calling you a stupid emo only for you to slap me around the face, and then go off behind your back with some random jerk i met in starbucks? and, number c, i’ve already rejected about fifty people’s numbers, and i’m fully prepared to reject a thousand more. i’d reject any real prince for you, even if he brought me flowers. _

_ i love you, para-moron. falling-for-me boy. brendon urie-a-nightmare. these just keep getting worse and worse, don’t they? i’ve got more. the cure-so-beautiful. the trash hits back. that’s punk, not emo, but it still counts. the fright stripes. the hell-bit underground. these are just band name puns now. call me an idiot in your next letter, i know you’re smiling right now. _

he is. he’s smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

the letter goes on to detail roman’s week, how he’s feeling, where he’s been, his work. there are photos, none with his face in, virgil registers in disappointment. lots more gushy stuff about how in love he is (yuck, how  _ totally  _ embarrassing, right) but that can only be expected. (roman’s written in ink, proper indian ink, and his reader traces a fingernail over the beautifully calligraphed letters - the curling, fountainpen flick of a v, the loop of an i, the dipping, swirling cursive

of  _ virgil. virgil.  _ he makes the name electric.)

roman closes:

‘ _ i didn't fall in love with you. _

_ i walked into love with you,  _

_ with my eyes wide open,  _

_ choosing to take every step along the way.’ _

_ (kiersten white; the chaos of stars) _

_ remember what you told me. 7-4-8. keep breathing, virge, i love you. _

_ yours forever (and ever and ever and ever), _

_ roman. _

virgil rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling, grinning, until his face cools down a little bit. god, that stupid idiot moron boy. 

‘i love you too,’ he murmurs, then rises and makes his way over to his desk. 

he picks up a pen (the nicest one he’s got) and a creamy sheet of paper. 


	5. Chapter 5

fingers slide over the strings of the bass.

tell me amps, tell me finger-sweat. dark, gun-dark. tell me thump, thump, thump, people, people, bodies, hot and slick. oil. tell me dark, gun-dark roman, dark-eye, dark-brow. focus, focus. 

tell me hunting-dog, he’s seeking someone out with his fingers, this sleek and finely dressed man he’s been following all night. he’s thinking of virgil, he’s not thinking of virgil. he’s not thinking at all.

forwards… forwards… edging round the wall. eye meets eye and it’s the charge of the light-brigade, only almost silent, there is only star and heavy breath as he tumbles feet-first into the chase and the squeeze and the press and release and the-

_ click, boom.  _

and then there is thump thump, and then there is hot breath, and then there is nothing.

miles away, virgil awakes with a start.


	6. Chapter 6

roman inhales deeply, nervously.  _ 7-4-8.  _

he goes through the motions of the airport so swiftly and thoughtlessly that it’s somehow a breeze, and before he knows it he’s sitting on a plane, staring out the window at a thick layer of cloud. he closes his eyes, but not fully (the sky sort of looks like the ocean if you squint). is this really what he’ll want?

he hasn’t written in two weeks, hasn’t dared to. he’s read virgil’s letters, though ( _ please write. please, please write. _ ) and they only served to make him feel worse.

time passes (an hour? two?) and then it’s landing, security, luggage, airport, this one much smaller. destination. he slumps down onto a bench; he doesn’t know what to think. he’s scared: scared virgil won’t come, scared he will.

_ 7-4-8.  _ roman exhales, shaky.

and then - a worried face bursting through crowds, sweeping black hair pulling away to reveal moonstone, starshimmer, oceanstorm eyes, loving eyes, sad, desperate eyes. he’s running, they’re running, they’re falling into each other, catching, steadying, laughing. sobbing. choking. holding each other, finally, finally. 

‘i was so worried,’ virgil gasps as roman clings tight to his chest. ‘they told me what happened.’

‘they… they did?’

‘i’m your emergency contact, dumbass. why didn’t you write?’

‘couldn’t,’ roman mumbles. mourn-eye, quiver-mouth. ‘just couldn’t.’

‘i’m sorry. i’m so, so, sorry.’

(i’m sorry. what does that mean? i’m sorry about what happened, i’m sorry about your pain, i’m sorry i can’t bring everything back to how it was? i’m sorry i could’ve helped you more, i’m sorry i couldn’t stop it?)

(since he got the letter telling him roman had been badly injured in an accident at a nightclub, costing him a leg, virgil hasn’t slept a wink. roman hasn’t either.)

but now roman cracks a smile as he buries himself into the pale scoop of a neck, intertwining their fingers.

‘thought you’d leave,’ roman mumbled. ‘it won’t be the same anymore.’

‘don’t care.’

‘i can’t work full time anymore.’

‘don’t care.’

‘i can’t even pick you up anymore.’

‘do i  _ look _ like i care? roman, this changes nothing.’ virgil pulls back, his eyes shining with ( _ blissjoyecstasylovelovelovelovelovelove, oh, how i missed you).  _

‘i was so scared you’d… i don’t know, find someone better in the city. because, well, i don’t know how to live without you. and that’s super scary, like, terrifying scary. but hey, we’ve both got things to overcome, and we can do it together.’

roman lets out a choked noise (that sounds vaguely like ‘of course, stormcloud, i love you so much’) and virgil pulls him close again.

‘it’s alright,’ says virgil into his bones. ‘i know, i swear, it’ll be alright.’

home again, from sickhearted airport embraces to the comfort of the fire and a cottage that is no longer too big. home again, to cliff-edge and smoke, to pine rafters and bodyheat, to linen. to the sweet smell of cooking paella. home again, home again.

to differences. to learning new things about each other. to change, to accomodation. to new jobs (virgil’s voice at local clubs and theatres, roman part-timing as an officer) and new goals.

to virgil turning his head on the pillow one night and breathing into roman’s ear:  _ hey-if-you-hadn’t-gone-to-the-city-we-wouldn’t-be-as-mature-or-as-closely-bonded-together-as-we-are-now-so-all-things-considered-profit-am-i-right? _ and to roman turning his head on the pillow and breathing back, with a smile,  _ i-suppose. _

to new routines, new places, new decisions (to knees and rings and clinking glasses). to mortgage. taxes. double-barrel surnames and all the stuff that comes with it. to falling out, and making up again. to hitting 30, 35, and noticing lines that weren’t there before. to  _ should we  _ and to  _ we should _ and to children. parenthood. to the future.

it’s a toast without champagne, lived, not spoken.  _ to growth. _


	7. Chapter 7

now tell me soft young breath against a pillow. tell me one smile, another from the doorway, tell me tidal eyes meeting thunderdark ones. 

‘you’re a great storyteller, princey, but you’re definitely not a voice actor. you made me sound like i gargled with gravel every morning.’ 

those hands again. they fall on sugar-snap hips, trail the sweeping curve of a prominent spine, reach skinny shoulders, cup the face. the face, the face, older, wiser, still milk-white, shining with love - roman presses his lips wherever they fit. his fingers brush over short black lashes, over eyelids, over the aquarium glass. he wants to press his nose against it and watch the thoughts flit and wriggle, to trace their paths. what is virgil thinking right now?

(it so happens that, at the present time, virgil is thinking about coffee - that is to say, coffee dark skin, cinnamon hair, mocha, latte,  _ can i drink you in? _ ) 

they leave their sleeping daughter’s room and amble over to their own, still pressed together. they have long since moved out of the cramped little cottage, left behind the curling bay and the quiet village, but they’re still nearby. patton and logan come over on the weekends. drinks are still on at the fairweather arms. sometimes, if the house is especially quiet (which it never is), one can hear the gentle lull of the sea.

it’s not their tiny brooding cliffside cottage anymore, but it is a home. and it does have a balcony. 

they’re sitting on this balcony now, maybe still. the lights of the town are blinking off, the sky is familiar - stained by the aftertaste of a sunset, grey-scud, humid. tell me roman and virgil, sitting on the balcony, maybe forever and ever, wrapped in the thick of each other, maybe for tonight. 

distant, distant, there’s a surefire rumble. thunder-dark, ocean-storm, salinity. 


	8. Chapter 8

tell me thunderstorms. 

how do they start? a drizzle of rain, a low-hung cloud, a dark night after a hot day? city boy at the bar, piano boy behind it, a shared quirk of the lips, a spark?

how do they end? the rain puttering out, the clouds dispersing, warmth trooping over the sunrise? a happy home, hand in hand, marriage and children and mortgage and tax?

we never want to know how the storm begins, how it finishes. we want to know the thick of it, the slick of it, the howling rain and desolate wind and the lightning, the thunder. we want to know shatter-crack clouds and neckbreaking waves. we don’t want the calm after, the storm-swept dawn, the clear orange sky. 

i’ve told you their thunderstorm. their drizzle of rain, their shatter-crack clouds, their clear orange sky. 

_ fin. _


End file.
